Cold Comfort
by Slayergirl
Summary: A missing scene from season 5 - Buffy is comforted by Spike. Rating is for the suggestion of self-inlicted violence. Thanks as ever to Joss Whedon for the characters.


Cold Comfort, by Slayergirl.  
  
'Missing scene' from Season 5, after 'Tough love' (where Tara's been brain- sucked), and the Scoobies have no idea what Glory will do to Dawn if she finds her. Spike and Buffy discuss it late one night, in a 'friendship' capacity.  
  
*** *** *** ***  
  
"So, want to talk about it?"  
  
"Talk about what?" she asked, as if she didn't know.  
  
"About what's going on in your head. Worrying about Glory finding Dawn. Where the money's going to come from now your mom's dead. Who's going to be the next one Glory picks on?"  
  
"No," she lied. He smiled quietly to himself. "Well, not to you, anyway." Her eyes met his, deep blue, with the marks of the hellgod's beating still visible around them. Somehow, they managed to look amused and sympathetic at the same time. She sighed. "I hate my life."  
  
"Yeah, well, I hate it too. If it wasn't for the chip I could rid you of it. Or turn you," he smiled, but there was no malice in it.  
  
"I'll call you when I slit my wrists," she said unenthusiastically. "Maybe you could speed up the process."  
  
His smile faded. "You'll find a way, love. You always find a way."  
  
"I just don't see how, this time. The odds aren't exactly stacked in my favour."  
  
"Are they ever?" He flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the ground.  
  
"No. But usually it's just demons. I can kill demons. Demons aren't a problem. Now I'm fighting a god."  
  
"We're fighting a god," he corrected.  
  
"Doesn't make much of a difference," she said. She stood up, walking a little way from him. "What happens if she kills Dawn?" she whispered, her back to him.  
  
She felt his arms winding round her waist, his chin resting on her shoulder. "You grieve," he said softly. "You grieve until you think it'll kill you. Then you go numb for a bit. Then it hurts again. Eventually you accept it." He said, remembering his own grief for his sister, killed by scarlet fever. "But you won't forget her. She'll always be a part of you." He felt her tears dripping onto his hands, and tightened his arms round her.  
  
Her movement was sudden, unexpected. She twisted round in his arms and buried her head on his chest, choking with tears. "I'm scared!" she sobbed. "I'm so scared! Scared I'm going to lose her, scared my friends are going to be picked off one by one, scared of being on my own as a responsible adult without my mom…"  
  
"Sh, love," he soothed, stroking her hair. "You're not alone. Watcher'll never leave you. He loves you too much. I'll never leave you. Xander and Willow and Anya won't leave you." He thought it best not to mention Tara. 'Poor kid.'  
  
"You could all be killed!" she cried, voice muffled by his chest.  
  
"Everyone dies sometime," he said softly. "You and I have already died. Not so bad, is it?"  
  
"You know what I mean. Permanent death, not – being turned or brought back by CPR."  
  
"I don't think it's death you're worrying about," he remarked. "I think you're more worried about them suffering."  
  
"That too."  
  
He wrapped his arms around her more tightly. She felt as though, somehow, his strength was flooding into her. She whimpered softly, and snuffled, wishing he would say something. For some reason, the vibrations of his chest as he spoke were strangely comforting. Or perhaps it was just the sound of his voice, the soft, gentle, lulling, reassuring tone that allowed her to let go and be weak for once, to get everything out of her system, cry on his shoulder.  
  
She turned her head to lay her cheek against his chest. Strange to think that she felt safe with him, that she could count on him – someone she'd thought of for so long as her mortal enemy. Now, she realised, she counted him amongst her truest friends. He'd proved he cared; he'd even been willing to give his life for Dawn by not telling Glory…  
  
Glory would find out soon enough. But Spike could, at least, be trusted. "Spike?"  
  
"Mm?"  
  
"What would you say if I told you I wasn't completely joking about killing myself?"  
  
It was a while before he spoke. "I'd say that I was right. You do have a deathwish. And," he added, "I'd also say that you're a bloody fool."  
  
"Thanks," she whispered. "I wasn't going to."  
  
He dared to drop a swift kiss on the top of her head. "I know."  
  
"Don't have the guts to do it," she admitted.  
  
"Thank God for that!" he muttered.  
  
She sighed, and wound her arms round his waist, her cheek still resting against his chest. His fingers tangled lightly in her hair. It comforted her. She felt as though she could easily stand there all night, just leaning against the broad chest, wrapped in his strong arms, finding consolation in both his speech and his silence.  
  
"Is it always this hard? Does it always hurt this much?" she murmured, almost to herself.  
  
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.  
  
It reminded her of a conversation she'd once had with Giles. But this time, "The truth. Tell me the truth."  
  
He drew her back to the steps and sat down with her, one arm still around her. She laid her head on his shoulder, and waited for him to speak. When he did, it wasn't what she'd expected – a short, brutal truth. Instead, he started speaking softly. "I think this says it. It's called 'Cold Comfort':  
  
It's sad, this silence –  
  
Lonely as the tomb,  
  
But not as lasting.  
  
The odd seagull's wail,  
  
A wave breaking  
  
On an unseen shore,  
  
Shrouded in mist.  
  
The dampness of the morning,  
  
Grey-ghost clouds  
  
Above the chiselled rocks,  
  
Dropped from a mourning gull,  
  
Salting the air,  
  
And washing the tiny stones.  
  
They sigh deeply in grief.  
  
It is a sad, sea-cold morning,  
  
With cold comfort  
  
From the trembling marram grass:  
  
'The world may weep, but sorrow has to end.'"  
  
They sat quietly for a while. "Morbid," said Buffy. "But – it's kind of how I feel. The loneliness, being surrounded by reminders of death, seeing sorrow and grief everywhere…"  
  
"'But sorrow has to end'," he reminded her softly.  
  
"End how?" she asked. "Is that really hope, at the end? Or death? Finality?"  
  
"The poet meant it to be hope. That tiny flicker of hope that remains when all else is lost, that makes you think that somehow, there is a way."  
  
She looked up at him with haunted eyes. "All I can see is death."  
  
"Stop looking at me then!" he tried to tease.  
  
She attempted a smile. "You wrote it didn't you?"  
  
He hesitated a little. "Yes," he admitted finally.  
  
She didn't need to ask what his hope was. She knew. For some reason, it hurt her that she couldn't make that dream a reality. But she couldn't. She just couldn't. She respected him, now. Trusted him. Even had a certain amount of affection for him, even if he did bug the hell out of her sometimes. But she just couldn't do that. And, what hurt her more was that he knew it too, in his heart. And yet he was still there for her, comforting her, supporting her.  
  
A chill breeze sprang up, making her shiver. She knew she should go inside and get some sleep, but didn't want to move. She was surprised when Spike wrapped his coat round her and held her closer. "Keep the chill out," he explained quietly. She smiled a little, nestling closer to him in a little leather-clad ball that fitted snugly onto his lap and in his arms.  
  
The coat did keep the chill out. She felt warm and safe, and didn't want to move, even though she felt utterly exhausted from the worries and pressure that piled onto her. Her eyelids began to droop, and her head nodded onto his chest.  
  
He sat still, holding her in his arms, not wanting to wake her. He knew she'd never love him – not in that way. But at least he could be her friend, and she accepted him as such. Needed him as such. That meant a lot. And it was enough for him. To be allowed to hold her like this, comfort her, be there for her. To be the one she turned to when she needed someone to hold on to. That was enough.  
  
It was near daybreak before he moved. She was still deeply asleep, and her face had lost the worried look it had worn the previous night. He set her down gently at the top of the steps, knowing that she was safe from vampires and demons – they'd all be home by now. He scribbled on a slip of paper and fitted it into her curled hand, leaving her wrapped in his coat, before racing the sun home.  
  
She woke when the sun started to warm her through the black leather. She uncurled herself, and stretched, trying to rid herself of the stiffness of her limbs. She smiled softly, remembering how she'd fallen asleep, knowing that Spike would have held her for as long as he could before returning to his crypt, probably almost until sunrise. 'He'd been so sweet,' she thought, a wave of tenderness sweeping through her.  
  
She stretched out in the warmth like a cat and unravelled the piece of paper. There, in his slightly archaic scrawl, were the words that, despite everything, did give her a feeling of hope. 'The world may weep, but sorrow has to end.' "Thank you," she whispered to the breeze. "Cold comfort it may be. But still comfort of a sort." 


End file.
